


Glass Ceiling & Fragile Homes

by CaptainJimothyCarter



Series: Winterhawk Bingo [15]
Category: Black Widow (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bucky Barnes Feels, Character Death, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint Barton has a son, Clint Barton-centric, F/M, Hurt Clint Barton, M/M, Natasha Romanov Feels, Single Parents, WinterHawk Bingo, clintbucky - Freeform, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27705293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainJimothyCarter/pseuds/CaptainJimothyCarter
Summary: Clint and Natasha are soulmates, they met and married within two weeks of knowing one another. Yet, when she dies from giving birth to their son and leaves Clint a single parent, he finds out that her heart [his very existence] now belongs to someone else.Literally.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Winterhawk Bingo [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1891774
Comments: 8
Kudos: 37
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo Round Two





	Glass Ceiling & Fragile Homes

**Author's Note:**

> Winterhawk Bingo: Natasha Romanoff

She’s the love of his life, one of the only people to see him for  _ him.  _ She’s his soulmate. The only one he will ever want. The only one he has ever thought of having a life together with. Hell, they were only dating for two weeks before he jumped the gun and asked her to marry him. They were married a day later in front of the judge with two strangers as witnesses. It’s been a hell of a ride and as any rides happen, they have to end.

Clint likes to think they’re immune to the reality of death. He likes to think nothing bad can ever happen to him or Natasha. He likes to think that he can protect them, as long as he continues to fight, he can protect both of them.

The truth is - he can’t. He can do nothing, but watch his wife, his adoring, beautiful wife waste away in the hospital bed, just hours after giving birth to their child. Their son. Who lays in NICU, where he is not able to go. He cannot even comfort his son who was born blue in the face and without a scream in his lungs. His son who was so small, Clint could’ve practically held him in one hand. 

Their son, who will grow up without knowing his mother, who knew her heartbeat for six months as comfort, who will never know it again.

She passes as she has arrived in his life, silent and in the middle of the night. She only passes when he’s finally asleep, half laying on her bed, his hand in hers. 

When the monitors reflect her soul leaving this great earth, Clint is no longer there. He’s left the room, a zombie to his feelings. There’s no use for him there, just a corpse lays where his wife once was.

A nurse is talking to him or a doctor. He’s not sure. He blinks wearily up at him, their mouth is moving, but no words could be understood. His ears feel like they have cotton over them, just nodding his head and unsure of what he’s agreeing with. As long as it gets the doctor to leave him alone.

The man finally does, with one more sad look and a squeeze of his shoulder before Clint is collapsed against the wall, legs are drawn into his chest.

A few hours later, he finds out what the doctor was talking about -  _ organ donor.  _ Natasha, always wanting to do good in life, to make up sins for some past life, was an organ donor. They said it would save the lives of countless people. They said that it was selfless of her and they’re sorry for her death, all while ripping her heart out of her chest. 

Whoever gets that heart, her lungs, her kidneys, and whatever the hell else they want, he hopes that they get to live a life as selfless and full as Natasha’s should’ve been.

She always wanted kids, a family. She was warned from the start how difficult getting pregnant to giving birth would be. That it could even be deadly but Natasha was always one not to believe the odds. She still asked for treatment, signing this waiver, and that. One cup of sperm, a few injections, and they found themselves pregnant. 

She wanted to wait to name the child, to know the sex, but without her here, Clint isn’t sure he can do it. He knows he can’t do it as he watches their still nameless boy in the incubator, struggling to breathe on his own.

He’s numb all over, he hasn’t cried. He doesn’t think he can or he should as if he’s not deserved of his feelings, of his life with her. He’s the reason she’s dead because he didn’t fight hard enough.

Now they have a son together, a son she left behind, a son he was so terrified to hold, to care for, but she convinced him it would be perfect otherwise.

It would be perfect if she was here. 

“Have you thought of a name?” A voice asks from the doorway of the small room they’re in.

Clint doesn’t lookup. He’s sitting in the same chair he’s been in for the past few days. He hasn’t showered, he still is wearing the same clothes they arrived in. He feels nasty and grunge and hasn’t slept in days, resulting in black bags under his red-rimmed eyes. His jeans and shirt are wrinkled from his constant touching, his hair a greasy mess and standing in all directions. If Natasha was here, she’d tell him to go shower, kick his butt into gear, but she’s not here. It’s just him.

There’s hope.

_ There’s always hope,  _ Natasha would say,  _ you just have to be patient.  _

Sniffing, Clint still looks inside the incubator. No, he hasn’t thought of a name. Hell, he hasn’t had a thought in the past day. Just numbness over his entire frame. He didn’t want to think, he didn’t want to be here. He didn’t have a choice. Their child needed him. He had no other and Clint knew personally the hell that came from being a foster kid. He wouldn’t let his son go through that.

“No,” he grumbled, the word spilling from his mouth. His mouth is dry, his head aches. How he just wants to sleep, but if he sleeps, then their child will be exposed.

He looks just like Natasha. The vibrant green eyes are full of life and energy that no one person can watch. He has Clint’s blonde hair coming in, soft whips already curling over the tips of his ears. He’s small in all the wrong places, his belly is the biggest thing about them. The tubes in his nose and wires on him are terrifying. He’s trapped in this  _ enhanced  _ tupperware that drives Clint insane. He wants to rip it off, hold their child close, and beg whatever deity would listen for his wife back.

“You two must’ve thought of a name, Mr. Barton. He can’t go without a name by -”

Clint’s head snaps up to glare at her. She’s smaller than him, skinnier, his hand could fit around her neck and snap it if he so dares. He doesn’t. It’s a dark thought he doesn’t like but her pitched voice, the insistence he makes a choice right here and now when he’s terrible at choices drives it out of him. She takes a step back and hits the wall, making him huff.

“We didn’t discuss names,” he grumbled. “Excuse me as I mourn my dead wife,  _ nurse.” _

In the end, Clint doesn’t choose a name. It’s a shitty tactic. It’s a shitty excuse. After all, he can’t decide because he doesn’t want to make this choice that had once been Natasha’s. The hospital presses. Nurses, doctors, even their social workers  _ insist  _ on a name, but he doesn’t choose. 

It’s over a month, two months before they’re out of the hospital. By then, Barney had been practically living in the hospital room with Clint too. He’s there both for the infant and for Clint, to get Clint to take care of himself, to help him learn how to take care of such a frail infant, to comfort him when’s breaking down. 

There’s no funeral, in the end either. Selfishly, Clint can’t go through it. He can’t deal with going through a funeral for Natasha, he can’t force himself to admit that she’s truly gone. Living in his apartment, with their newborn infant is him living in a waking nightmare. No matter where he looks, he sees her. He sees her likeness on the walls, on the paintings done in the hallway, the food in the kitchen, the memories that laid on their bed. 

He’s a selfish man, Clint knows. He’s truly selfish, for keeping her ashes close and their nameless child closer. Maybe the hospital staff is right - he’s not cut out to be a parent.

In the end, Clint knows the name he’s going to give their son.  _ Francis. Francis Jacob Barton.  _ Barney laughs when he says it, but he also agrees it’s a good choice. And Natasha would be proud. Francis loves it, the infant making comforting sounds when Clint murmurs it.

Francis is growing stronger by the day, but it’s still not easy. He’s stronger, he can breathe on his own now, his heart isn’t so wonky, and a thousand other things are better with him now, but he’s still not the same. He knows. He knows his mother is no longer around. He looks off and stares at the bed or in the rocking chair Clint has yet to touch. He knows and he cries.

Clint cries too.

Clint doesn’t sleep in their bed. He doesn’t let Barney sleep on it either. He sleeps on the floor in Francis’s room or on the couch. Barney sleeps in the guest bedroom. He’s the first one awake when Francis cries. The child cries all the time, it’s heartbreaking. It’s more for just food or a diaper change or burping or whatever the hell he wants. It’s for someone who won’t be here, who will never get to hear his cries.

Clint cries with him too, his heart-shattering at the reminder that he’s a useless parent who can’t even be the balm his kid needs.

* * *

Francis is officially three months old when Clint is woken up, not by a crying infant, but his phone ringing. It’s late - nearly 2 in the morning. At first, he thinks it’s Barney, calling him to tell him that he’s arrived safely home, but Barney had already called hours ago. 

Quickly silencing the phone, Clint pushes himself off of the floor of the nursery, looking in on Francis sleeping in his crib. One hand wrapped around one of Natasha’s old shirts. He refuses to let go of it, he sleeps with it and cuddles it more than he does any toy that is bought for him.

Without thinking, he answers the vibrating phone, stepping out of the room to avoid waking up a sleeping infant. Francis just went to bed, the last he needs is a screaming kid. The shirt is the only balm he’s been able to find and sooner or later, Clint knows it’s not going to work. 

_ “Yeah?”  _ he grunts into the phone, rubbing at his eyes.  _ “The hell do you want, man?” _

There’s heavy breathing on the other end answering him. It sounds labored and at first, Clint is disgusted. Did someone call just to jerk off on the other end? Tease him? He wants to throw the phone across the room for more reasons than that, but he refrains from doing so.

“S-sorry.” The voice is like thunder, rumbling in the distance to alert a storm is approaching. The man on the other end clears his throat, but it doesn’t change his voice. “I...I was walking up the stairs, didn’t realize you’d answered.  _ Fuck.” _

Clint blinked, unsure of what to say. He was tired, he was always tired, he wanted to go lay back down while Francis slept to sleep much as he could before they redid the pattern of the day of waking up to tears and a full diaper, and never-ending guilt.

“Sorry, sorry,” Thunder Voice said again. “I’m sorry. I know it’s late? It is late, right? Yeah. 2:53, the microwave says. Look…” He sighed again, Clint was getting tired of those sighs. “I maybe shouldn’t even be calling you? Especially not this late.”

“Then why call me?” Clint grumbled, taking a few more steps down the hall. His hand brushes over the bedroom door, still have not opened it since he’s come home. “It  _ is  _ late and you coulda woken my son up.”

“I know and I’m sorry. You don’t know me, but I...I got  _ her  _ heart.”

It went without saying who  _ she  _ was. 

A chill ran down Clint’s spine and he felt like the wind was knocked out of his lungs. He found himself staring at a photo that felt like a lifetime ago. Natasha was heavily pregnant and Clint’s arms were around her. Her red hair had blown up from the wind, blowing it into his face when the photo was taken. 

They both were happy, laughing,  _ alive.  _

And the guy was still talking.

_ “...shoulda just emailed or something. Anyway, what did you think? Should we do it?” _

_ “Uh…”  _

The hell was he agreeing to? 

_ “Sure,”  _ Clint agreed, hoping this wouldn’t come to bite him in the ass.

“Wait, really? You want to meet me?”

“Wait what?!” Shaking his head, Clint forced himself to pay attention, gripping the phone tighter. “Meet you? Where? Who? What?!”

“Whoa, buddy, calm down. Calm down, _ маленькая птица [little bird.]” _ That name. A nickname she used to call him in a soothing tone that would sap the anger right out of his system. Somehow, it still had the same effect. If he closed his eyes, he could picture her holding him against her chest still. “I asked if you and your son would like to meet me, to...listen to her heart. I don’t know if it helps or makes things worst, but I wanted to give you that choice.”

“Should...can we legally do that?” 

“Who cares - the hell they gonna do? Take my heart out of me? I would like to meet the two of you if that’s possible. I have a hotel in Manhattan, I’ll text you the time and address, okay? Just...be there? I understand if you don’t want to.”

Before Clint knew it, he was hanging up, making promises to meet with a stranger that he didn’t even know the name of. Even as the text came in with the address and time, Clint still couldn’t bear to text him back. All he could do was play that nickname in his head over and over like a record.

_ маленькая птица  _ [little bird]

* * *

_ 4:32 pm _

He doesn’t even get to see the name as he adjusts the stroller, lifting it on the two back legs to get it over the raised doorway. It’s fancy in here, to the point he’s on the verge of being uncomfortable. There’s a certain atmosphere in here that makes Clint think he’s out of place here. One wrong puzzle piece amongst a perfect set-piece. One wrong piece from one stray set that doesn’t belong here, but he’s wedging himself in any way.

No one is looking at him or scoffing or frowning at him. They’re not even bothering to look in his direction. Why would they? He doesn’t belong here. He tried to dress up, pulling a button-up collared shirt on over some t-shirt with the least amount of stains on it and a pair of dusty jeans. He tried to fix his hair but the walk over here and Francis pulling on it had made it a mess again. 

Francis for now is gurgling inside of the stroller, looking up between the slits at his father’s face. There’s recognization there, Clint knows. He can see the spark in his eyes, but he also sees the distant, haunting look. He’s missing one more person. He’s missing one more piece, one more sense of him being whole.  _ Natasha.  _

“Well, buddy,” Clint sighed, not even sure if Francis can understand him. The internet says he can, the doctors they see say he’s healthy, so who cares. “I guess we just wait here - it’s where our stranger wants us to wait.”

He takes a seat in the far lobby, furthest from the door and elevators, furthest from the front desk. It’s a soft couch, comfortable, a few books and old magazines line the table. At first, Clint tries to just keep a lookout, watching a few white-collared men walk by, but he can’t focus. Does the guy even know what he looks like? Maybe he should call him.

_ No, no, Barton. Give him ten minutes, then call. Just keep the baby busy, no one wants a crying child. _

Not even him.

It’s not that Clint didn’t love Francis - dear God he did. Francis was his thriving joy. He was the love of his life, the pure reason that he gets up in the morning. He was his reason to live. He  _ loved  _ Francis more than anything, but he also recognized when he was struggling, knowing he wasn’t the best parent out there.

Hell, he tried. He didn’t let a dirty diaper sit for hours on end, he always tended to his cries, maybe even held and babied him far too much by what parenting guides said, but he wasn’t the  _ best.  _ Because he was drowning in his sorrow, missing her, needing Natasha by his side.

He wasn’t the best parent out there, but he wasn’t the worst either.

As if he’s reading his thoughts, Francis starts to cry. As soon as the babe starts to do his normal hiccupping cry, Clint is lowering the stroller and picking the infant up. He cradles him in tender touches to his chest, shushing him.  _ Now  _ people are glaring at them.

“Shh, shh,” he breathed, rocking Francis side to side. Still, the blonde infant with a flushed face and two freckles on his nose was crying. “You’re okay, buddy. You don’t need a diaper change, do you?”

The diaper was clean as a whistle - amazing since he’d eaten an hour ago. He wasn’t hungry either, he tried a bottle of formula, but Francis shook his head and slapped it out of the way.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong, buddy?” 

The infant only cried louder, making Clint’s ears ring. He held him closer and bounced the baby boy, letting him rest against his chest. He knew what would help, Natasha’s shirt. The black, bleach stained one that they used to paint the nursery in. The one she always slept in. He’d left it on the couch when he had to rush out this morning.

“It’s okay, buddy. Hey. Hey.” He cupped Francis’ face gently, his thumb wiping the tears away rapidly as they came. “It’s okay. I know, I know we don’t have it… It’s okay. Here.”

He was frantic. The kid was crying louder, he was going to get kicked out of this posh hotel. And he still hadn’t met the donor. That only made him start to panic more, his heart racing, and the panic written on his face. 

It takes Clint a second too long to realize they’re not alone in this little area. A guy stands just a few feet away, a boyish, charming smile on his full lips. He’s shorter than him, his long hair was pulled back in an elegant braid that  _ instantly  _ reminded him of how Natasha used to do her hair. His eyes are seafoam blue - almost silver with storms of green and brown freckled throughout. He looks flushed, winded with his chest rapidly rising and falling as he struggled to catch his breath. 

It takes Clint even longer to realize that the man, standing in this hotel is dressed in nothing but a compressed shirt, dirty jeans, and combat boots. What stands out most the more he stares with this panic expression on his face is the fact the guy has a metal arm. A glove is held in one hand before he stuffs it into his pocket. He smiles again, the smile takes Clint’s breath away.

The way he carries himself, the demeanor in him, reminds him of Natasha. His wife. His soulmate.

This is him - the one who wanted to meet up.

Silently the guy approaches and takes Francis from Clint’s arm after silently looking at him for assistance. Francis cries even louder, his scream echoing around the hotel’s lobby. 

It’s like he’s in a waking dream. He  _ sees  _ the stranger in front of him, cradling his baby boy against his chest with soft shushing noises. He  _ sees  _ the man before him, but it’s not him. It’s Natasha. That’s all he feels as he steps closer.

His hand moves on its own accord, reaching up to cup the guy’s scruffy cheek. He’s unaware he’s crying too, tears burning his eyes before they spill. It takes him that long to realize Francis is quiet. 

The baby hiccups softly, his body jumping with each hiccup. He looks small, fragile in the man’s metal arms. His cheeks have flushed a shade of pink, eyes blinking sleepily up at Bucky before letting out a sound. 

“Hi,” Clint breathes, pulling his hand away when he sees what he’s doing. 

“Hi,” the stranger breathes, showing all teeth when he smiles. He shifts his arms, kissing Francis’s temple. “I...should’ve asked, he just…”

“No, no it’s okay. He...hears her?” Defiantly feels like a dream, everything is sluggish and slowed down.

“Yeah,” the guy breaths, nodding his head. “I-I think so. Do you want to-”

  
The guy doesn’t even get to finish. Clint has thrown his arms around the broad stranger and rested his head on the man’s shoulder. It’s not content, not in the same manner of listening to his heart on his chest. 

It’s enough. He can hear his heart,  _ her  _ heart. The solid beat behind it, thumping softly. A melody that has once sung him to sleep, a melody he has missed, that his body and mind craved. And without truly knowing it, Francis did too.

When Clint finally pulls away, he sees the guy is crying too. “You sound...just like her.” That’s stupid. It’s dumb. Of course, he does. He has  _ her  _ heart. What else is he gonna sound like? “I’m uh, I’m Clint. I don’t know if they...said anything. This is...Francis.”

“You finally chose a name?” The man purred, looking down at the sleepy infant. “It fits him perfectly - she would’ve loved it. I’m James, I sorta forgot to tell you earlier. But my friends call me Bucky.” 

“Bucky,” Clint breathes as if he’s testing the weight of the name on his tongue. It’s different - he likes it. “Thank you for this. It...helps.”

Crap - what the hell was he to say? Do? Just thank him and go? He didn’t want to leave, Clint found. He wanted to stay here, talk to the guy, never leave his presence because for the first time it feels like home. 

“Do you want to come back to my hotel room?” Bucky flushes, the tips of his ears turning pink, as he realizes what his words sound like. “I-I mean to...talk. Get to know one another? With...Francis? I don’t think he’s gonna let me go.”

True enough, Francis has one little fist wrapped around Bucky’s shirt, the other is holding onto Clint’s hand tightly, being the force that holds him together. Clint’s heart melts at the sight, threatening to just start crying. He just might, knowing how much he’s bottled up.

However jumbled and flustered they both are, there’s a relief in hearing those words. Listening to Bucky tumble them out, trying to get one out after the other in some coherent sentence. It’s nice to know that the owner of Natasha [and his] heart isn’t some posh man who bought his way to the top of the donor list. That he’s as much as an awkward mess as Clint is. 

_ “Please,”  _ Clint breathes. 

For the first time in a while, in months, he feels like he’s not alone. That while Natasha might not be with him, while he still struggles to tread the churning waves, and keep his head above water, he’s not alone. 

She’s truly here, looking after him and Francis. Keeping her family safe.


End file.
